WQSR is proud to present “The Autobiography of a Ghostwriter

BE SURE TO DRINK YOUR OVALTINE. -Carl Gustav Jung

Grim and ceaseless, the machine spits flesh screaming into a deaf world.

Grim and ceaseless, the machine grinds us out

and in the interstices…

…ten-thousand times are we forced from our homes to cross the yard and enter hot dusty stale strangling sheds to seize our panicked clucking crippled sustenance to break its neck with our tired hands and feel the shudder of life leaving through our wrists through our elbows and ten-thousand times do we gag on tendons while bitter chunks of warm gravy half-digested rise to seep creeping filling our mouth and threaten to burst our damned lips pursed with resolve to stain our shirt our journey our life

Mother, you took me squirming and pinned me to a universe of broken beauty, a killing jar with no center.

Stop.

Let us start over.

Let me take a breath.

The hermit stands on the hill, a pinprick of light all boiling euphoria, incarnation

Reincarnation, cognition

Recognition. Déjà vu holds to sanity, loses sanity, loses body again and again and

again.

Where is the communion for this man with x-ray glasses seeing smiling skulls? Not even folie à deux?

Send a lead line, hermit.

Launch your epistulary capsules.

Rise and find home. Your true home.

Find your affirmation under clouds of silent planets circling black suns.

Find your affirmation under incense and hydrogen cyanide.

Tie your mind’s bleeding shrikes to silver cedar and sprinkle lustral stardust. Holy feelings burn, but those aren’t mine, those belong to phantom limbs projected.

Is there such a thing as a phantom heart?

Write, sidereal soul. Carve your epistemological asterisms in ivory.

Insight solidifies in your holy book, your Codex Cicatrice –

lines like leaves falling from noumenon, transubstantiating wave functions – telling truths with lies.

Who’s a victim?  Not I.  I have these words.

I am Psychograph binding the eidolons of intuition in rituals sui generis.

I swing the censer, ring its silent bell.

I offer myself the eucharist.

Your world is seven knives.  Your world is a broken ceremony, tea spilled. Fear is sepia toned.

My world was a private brightness – six swords that sliced the air with polychome painful in its beauty. Good. Evil. Other quaint ideas whispered from secret spaces.

Be still.

Completely still.

Let the waters glass and leave the hourglass bottom-heavy and listen.

There it is…

The song of her beautiful weeping but

The stalking regicide is unleashed – madonna dissected, eviscerated, obscenely solid and displayed spread splayed on her throne.

You roam the smoky streets rending and wondering.

Where’s my body? You took it.

Help.

Help.

I’m blending into a dream that never dies.

Die dream. Impotence and fortification.

Build armor.

On the outside.

It’s the wrong place for it.

Bar the window.

Don’t open the curtain. Don’t.

A demon, all teeth, seethes on the other side of the window.

Infantilizing.

Binding.

Will.

Burn the ships.

Fire up the generators.

Galactic gears catch, constellations whirl. Stellar spokes scream toward the electric center – the mute, useless, omniscient center.  Voices whisper through dynamic star static mazes:

“Drown it.”

Comfortable bête noire I seize your throat and push you under, plugged into the sadistic pleasure of enlightened self-worth.

Too long have you pried me from me, a butter knife wedged scraping the bone under my crying eye, blinding koinonia.

There are too many cobwebs in this attic.  Too many spiders fabricated. Too much entanglement.

Take a stand.

What happens when friction becomes negative?

A lateral shift, a tiny spasm becomes…

A beam of pure consciousness transmitting from a quasi-stellar radio.

A hermit with x-ray glasses stands listening on the hillside, watching invisible fires.

And now, hermit, descend the hill for the curtain is drawn. Enter with murderous intent the window hidden by the darkness of time and opened by the will of hope.

Find the bedroom where your father lay sleeping before you were born.

Suffocate him.

Rise, drowning waters and reveal magic circuitry synthesizing the spirits of the subconscious, killing aphantasia.

I can see you!

This is my gift.

I break waking and sleep, I the 3 a.m. hypnopomp.

I see car crashes.  I avoid wrecks.

My ship drawn steaming to the convergence of the hemispheres in a lantern held on the hillside.

Lantern, light the fuel.

Ignite the coil.

No, not a body – an induction coil sublimating with voltage and sitting bathed in stained glass in a church built in a rarefaction on the cosmic horizon.

The doors are open.

Come sit next to me.

Sit with me in mystery.

Pray on the qualities of paradox. Pray on Luke 12:48.

And when the time comes, together we will walk through the garden to the place of sacrifice.

Together we will release our bodies without organs and force vision into flesh.

Together we will deviate into annihilation.

Penance for you; none for me.

I died unbaptized.

Died into divergent truth.